


Crotchety

by uumuu



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crafts, Fluff and Crack, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-13
Updated: 2015-06-13
Packaged: 2018-04-04 05:11:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4126573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uumuu/pseuds/uumuu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Míriel and Caranthir have a yarn contest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crotchety

“It's war,” Telufinwë solemnly announced to his twin, an almost smug (and quite misplaced) sort of relish brightening his features, after witnessing Míriel and Carnistir's latest row. 

It had all seemed well, immediately after she had returned – aside from the fact that nobody knew _how_ exactly she had returned. The Valar weren't forthcoming on the subject. Míriel herself claimed she had slipped out of the Halls, 'through the cracks' she said. That wasn't particularly elucidative (or reassuring), and didn't explain how she had gotten a body, at any rate. Many started whispering that she was a witch. Her face dimpled with an impish grin whenever she chanced to come across someone she sensed held that opinion.

She paid no heed to people's whispers; she was happy with her family. Fëanáro was beyond ecstatic, and sought to fulfil her every wish. She got along well with Nerdanel, and enjoyed spending time with her grandsons. That is, until one day she went rummaging through Carnistir's seemingly unlimited yarn stash, looking for cotton threads, and unearthed one of his many unfinished crochet projects. She had pulled it out, examined it, and quickly judged it to be too poor to be continued. 

Carnistir had gone back to his room when she had already unraveled most of it.

The result was their first quarrel, a screaming match to outdo every previous loud quarrel between Carnistir and his father. 

Míriel maintained that the stitches were too loose, crooked, and the piece was all bent out of shape. It was all but impossible to make out the pattern.

Carnistir countered that the stitches were very loose on purpose, since the piece was supposed to be a lacy shawl, and every novice knew that lace required a lot of drape.

The bickering and taunting continued for days, each party accusing the other of having, apparently, no true understanding of the craft, until they decided to settle the dispute with a contest. Both would crochet a dress for Héruminyë, using the same pattern, the same hook, and the same yarn, a sheeny laceweight silk with some seaweed fiber added to it for breathability. Héruminyë was appointed arbiter on account of her proven objectivity (she had notoriously rejected an elaborate necklace Curufinwë had made for her because she didn't like the placement of a couple of the gems.) 

“I bet Grandma wins,” Telufinwë said, pulling out the worn-out notebook where he recorded all their bets.

Pityafinwë stared at him with undisguised disapproval. “Don't be silly, Telvo, it's obvious that Moryo will win.” 

“Grandmother is the best when it comes to yarn crafts.”

“But Moryo has been making that sort of dress for over a century, and he knows Héruminyë better.”

Macalaurë agreed with Pityafinwë, whereas Tyelcormo placed his bet on Míriel.

“You do it only because of your hair!” Pityafinwë accused, while Telufinwë wrote it down. (It was a fact that Tyelcormo didn't understand the first thing about yarn crafts, or about any other craft apart from basic smithing.)

Curufinwë was barred from participating, and Maitimo, when asked, declined to, agreeing with his mother that it would have been best not to encourage any sort of contest.

Míriel and Carnistir nevertheless set to work. They sat at opposite ends of one of the internal courtyards of Fëanáro's house, for a fixed number of hours each day over the course of three weeks. Fëanáro sat perched on the edge of the fountain in the middle, a radiant smile plastered to his face as he looked now at his mother, now at Carnistir while they worked.

Míriel worked faster than Carnistir, her strong hands twisting and pulling the yarn with assured precision, and after she wove in the last end on the second to last day, she took her bird-shaped scissors with glee and trimmed the tail with a triumphant _snap_. Then she cleared her throat, causing Carnistir to look up, and began putting her tools and materials away with infuriating placidity. 

On the following day Carnistir sat at his usual place, looking dejectedly at the empty spot opposite him. He half expected his father not to come, with his mother no longer there. Fëanáro arrived soon after instead, and gave him a kiss of encouragement. Carnistir began feeling guilty at that. His grandmother could be obnoxious, but he was still glad she was back. His father wasn't merely happy, he looked like a shroud had been lifted from him and he could finally, truly, shine. He should have focused on that. Then he felt Míriel's gaze on himself and heard her high-pitched cackling from one of the windows overhead. He gritted his teeth and set to work with renewed determination.

Héruminyë received both dresses, inspected them carefully, but said that she would have to wear them before deciding which one was the best. 

Her verdict, after one more week of waiting and in the presence of the whole assembled family, was that Míriel's was in fact more visually pleasing, the flowers and whorls and the entire design more well-defined and striking. Her primary craft was embroidery, after all. Carnistir's was a bit looser, but that also made the dress fall better around her body and thus more comfortable to wear, and without any hesitation she awarded victory to him. 

Pityafinwë inclined his head towards his twin with a self-satisfied smile.

Míriel didn't hide her disappointment, but didn't launch into one of her tirades either, drawing a thankful sigh of relief out of Nerdanel.

Fëanáro came forward and handed each a present – a needle case, identical save for the colour of the gem set in the centre of the lid. 

Carnistir and Míriel turned it over in their hands, then their gazes met and after a brief delay they hugged, and were reconciled.

“But no disparaging my projects...please,” Carnistir said.

“I won't touch your stuff without your permission again,” Míriel promised. “...sorry.” 

In the evening, they celebrated with a party.


End file.
